


Some Kind of Nature

by blacktofade



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-24
Updated: 2010-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-24 18:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktofade/pseuds/blacktofade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Movieverse] In which Holmes and Watson run through the woods, fall into a muddy stream, and solve many mysteries together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Kind of Nature

They’re running, running as fast as they possibly can in the growing night, speeding through trees and undergrowth. Watson can feel brambles clinging to the bottoms of his trousers, above the din, can hear the way the thorns scrape over the woollen material until they reach their breaking point and detach from their homes, embedding themselves so that with every stride, Watson can feel them scratching superficial marks into his ankles.

There are men – at least three – and two dogs chasing behind, the former yelling colourful curses and the latter howling at their retreating backs.

Watson’s thigh throbs, but the knowledge of what will happen if he stops keeps him going. Holmes is in front, leading them blindly between logs and rocks and clumps of nettles. They’re gaining distance, the fading outcries informing Watson of the fact. Holmes suddenly jumps, leaping clear over a shallow brook, but leaving Watson no time to follow suit. Watson ends up with two soggy feet and a spray of cold water up the back of his jacket, reaching as high as the nape of his neck. His leather shoes begin to pinch at his skin, but he knows he can’t stop.

Watson can hardly see a thing and almost runs straight into Holmes’ back when the other man stops short suddenly. He hears the soft sound of a cork being pulled from a bottle and the strong stench of something unpleasant. Holmes runs a large loop around a large tree they’ve stopped by, then throws the container into a thicket of bracken.

“Quick, Watson,” Holmes says, gripping the edge of a low-hanging branch. “Lift me up, then follow my lead.”

Watson drops to the mossy floor and places his shoulder underneath Holmes’ backside, carefully raising him into a u-bend of the tree. Holmes scrabbles, climbing higher and, in the process, accidentally kicking Watson in the chest with his heel. Watson lets out a breath, but reaches to push him up the final inches. His hands trail dangerously along the backs of Holmes’ thighs, but there’s no time for either of them to comment on it.

Watson quickly swings himself up next to Holmes, who points to a branch much higher up, and so they climb, careful of the damp bark slicking their route, until Holmes sits with his back to the trunk of the tree, his legs hanging either side of the thick branch. Watson sits in front, facing towards him, bending his knees and keeping his legs as much out of sight as he can. In the darkness of night, he knows anyone from the ground will only see him as a dark shape, appearing as just another branch.

They keep their breathing as even and silent as possible as snapping twigs alerts them of their pursuers closing in. Watson listens, his heart thudding loudly in his ears, as the dogs growl and sniff enthusiastically at the forest floor. They suddenly begin to yelp and veer off to the right, away from their hiding place; the men follow their dogs, crying out victoriously, obviously thinking that they’ve picked up the scent and are getting close again. Their whoops and hollers fade into the distance and Watson lets out a gentle sigh of relief.

Before long, Watson can hear nothing but the soft hooting of an owl in the distance and the quiet rustle of a creature – probably a hedgehog – in the carpet of leaves below them.

“Fox urine,” Holmes whispers and Watson understands, though he fails to rationalise Holmes having a bottle of such liquid on his person during a night like this.

Watson drops his legs, gripping at his perch with his fingers to keep his balance, though he knows if he were to fall, he’s not high enough to do much damage. Watson can feel the ripple of air as Holmes swings his feet, like a child sitting on a chair that’s too tall.

“How long do we wait?” Watson asks, as his feet chill in the growing breeze.

“I should give it a few moments more; though I am certain they have gone, it will not hurt to wait a minute longer.”

Watson picks at a knot in the branch, feeling dirt clumping under his nails, but continuing, nevertheless. The first spots of rain fall through their woody overhead covering and drip down the bridge of his nose in cold slides. He wipes at his skin with grubby fingers, only realising his mistake a moment too late; he knows he has dark smudges marring his features now. Holmes reaches out and places a cool hand against Watson’s bare wrist.

“I believe it is safe now,” he says, though he keeps his voice below its normal level. Watson waits as Holmes shifts and slides his way to the ground, before following, landing with a muffled _thump_ in the dirt beside his friend.

“Which way do we go?” Watson asks, finding nothing but darkness in every direction.

Holmes finds his wrist once more and tugs him in what Watson believes is the direction in which they just came. He follows silently, saying nothing even when Holmes’ fingers run along his skin and send a tingling feeling up his arm. Holmes’s hand moves up to his elbow, the gesture nothing but friendly as Holmes – more than once – keeps Watson from stumbling over molehills in the dark. Holmes, however, fails to warn himself of the sharp step down into the stream Watson managed to soak himself in not fifteen minutes before, and he ends up stumbling onto his hands and knees on the muddy embankment.

Unfortunately for Watson, Holmes doesn’t let go of his elbow, in fact, he tightens his grip as he tumbles, and Watson slides through the dirt, which he tries desperately to dig his heels into, but with no success, and ends up tripping over Holmes’ body. He lands on the grassy verge, while Holmes rolls sideways into the stream. Watson can hear sputtering and the slick sound of skin against mud; he quickly rises to his feet and helps Holmes, who struggles against the sinking ground, until they both fall backwards into a patch of bluebells that meets its end under their shoulders.

Holmes spits repeatedly and Watson listens to the faint crunch of dirt between Holmes’ teeth. He is not envious in the least.

Watson blinks against the rain that’s now falling harder, and curses their luck. They’d only been trying to find the whereabouts of Mrs Sudley, who had disappeared after leaving her husband a rather ambiguous note as to her location. There must have been a mix up somewhere, but Watson needs a good clean and a sit down before he will be able to think clearly.

“We shall have to raise our fees, Watson,” Holmes says as though reading Watson’s mind. He picks himself up off the ground and helps Watson to his own feet; Watson can feel the caked mud on Holmes hands and dreads to think what the rest of the man looks like. He feels as though he got away lightly, for his jacket feels damp, but not enough for it to reach his body underneath.

He takes the role of leader, curling his hand into the crook of Holmes’ elbow, leading swiftly onwards, aware that their splashing and spitting has made enough noise that their trackers could possibly return. Watson knows the edge of the forest is not far away, the darkness seems less dense than before, and he’s sure there’s a lamp or two from nearby houses in the distance. It encourages him to quicken his pace and they soon break from the woodlands and stride purposely down the nearest dirt room in the direction of town.

They have a room with a roaring fire and basins filled with water waiting for their arrival and Watson can almost smell the burning logs and feel the clean water against his skin. Watson can barely feel his feet and he can’t even begin to think how Holmes must feel drenched to the bone. Their breaths fog in front of their faces, adding to the mist that’s already gathered about the area; there will no doubt be a frost tomorrow morning.

Holmes trips in a pothole, one that’s steadily filling with rain, and Watson has to reach his other arm around to stop the man from tumbling to the ground. Watson can hear his teeth clacking together, but he knows there’s not much farther to go now, just to the end of the lane.

On the right, there’s a small inn, with two lamps lit outside and a small sign with _The Duck and Pond_ written on it. They enter as quietly as they can, though they’re both breathing heavily from their rushing, and climb the stairs to the room they booked earlier. As per request, there is a fire crackling madly beyond the grate and two large basins of hot water, one by each bed.

In the light, Watson can see that Holmes looks far worse than he’d imagined. There is not an inch of his face that has not been browned with dirt and his coat and trousers are no longer black. Watson sets about stripping his own jacket off before sitting on the edge of the bed and removing his shoes. His feet feel half-frozen, but they are still fleshy and pink in colour – no danger of frostbite. He grabs the cloth next to the water bowl and wets it in the warm water, wringing it out and gently dabbing at his toes.

He cannot hear Holmes undressing behind him, instead, can hear the rhythmic pattern of footsteps of a man pacing.

“Holmes, will you catch a chill if you keep those soaked clothes on,” he says in warning.

“There is something we are missing, Watson; it is right beneath our noses.”

Watson says no more, just finishes with his feet and moves to the mirror on the wall to clean his face and neck – he was right about the dirt on his nose.

He quickly changes into a clean pair of underwear, ignoring Holmes’ presence in the room – he knows the man’s too caught up in thinking to ever spare him a second glance anyway – then takes the basin and sets it outside the bedroom door. When he steps back in, he finds Holmes sitting stiffly in a wing-backed chair, his elbows on his knees, his steepled fingers under his chin, propping up his head.

“Watson, what if Mrs Sudley was not Mrs Sudley after all?”

Watson doesn’t know how that could be possible, but he humours Holmes, nevertheless.

“Then who would she be?” he asks, perching on the end of the bed he’s claimed as his own – it is unspoken between them, but he always takes the one nearest the door.

“She would be no one.” Holmes leans back in his chair, wearing an expression that rather says Watson would have to be a fool not to understand him, but apparently, Watson _is_ one because he _doesn’t_.

“Then who wrote the note?”

“That is the question, Watson.” He rises from his seat and begins pacing again. “Let us say that there is a man; we shall call him Smith. Now, let us say that Smith is having rather illicit relations with someone who may or may not be of his own gender. A wife would, no doubt, be helpful to throw others off the scent, wouldn’t you agree?”

Watson nods, fairly lost, but knowing Holmes will fill in the gap in the end.

“So Smith creates a woman and tells everyone of her – how they had a secret wedding just outside of Kent; how they enjoyed a honeymoon abroad in Brussels; how they would like to have 3 children, one boy and two girls – but now people are being to wonder where she is, for she never shows up around town. Smith now wants to settle down, but cannot because he has dug himself too deep of a hole, so he devises a plan. His wife goes missing, nobody can find her, and so rumours and gossip follow him. This allows him to move from one town to the next, with people already knowing his story, feeling nothing by sympathy for him, and thinking nothing when Smith’s decidedly very male _friend_ moves in to help him recover from his trauma.”

Watson nods again. “Mr Smith’s friend is obviously his lover here, no doubt?”

Holmes grins, obviously happy that Watson has managed to keep up. “Yes, he is; however, he failed to take into account that others would search harder than he would. I do not think he even considered that detectives would be brought in. I suspect he believed the matter would stay within the village, but we have foiled his plans here, Watson.”

“That is why we were chased? They were some of his cohorts and he was trying to drive us out of town to save his own skin?”

“Precisely.”

Watson stays quiet for a moment, then looks at Holmes. “What are we to do, Holmes?”

Holmes sighs and moves to sit next to Watson, though Watson pushes him away gently from the clean covers, silently reminding him of his muddied state. Holmes sits back in the chair instead.

“We do nothing, Watson, for it is not our business.”

Watson watches Holmes carefully as he says, “But that relationship is illegal.”

Holmes shoots him a glance. “Watson, my dear boy, everything these days is illegal.”

That is all he says on the matter before sighing. “Another case, another lack of true mystery. We shall head back to London as soon as dawn breaks.”

Holmes finally shrugs his coat off before moving to the basin of water to clean his face. Watson watches with idle interest, but frowns when he notices red among the dirt.

“You are cut,” he states as Holmes hums dismissively.

He stands, moving to Holmes’ side, catching his face in his hands and forcing him to look straight forwards. There’s a gash on Holmes’ temple, no more than a couple centimetres long, barely more than a cut from a small stone, but it bleeds freely, turning clear water maroon.

“Strip off and I will sort this out,” Watson says, as Holmes appears to hold back a sigh. “It’s for your own good,” he adds as Holmes slips his shirt off and shucks his trousers. He sits on the bed’s edge in his soggy, almost transparent underwear, and Watson drags a footstall over, on which he seats himself before raising the damp cloth to Holmes’ face.

He carefully wipes along Holmes’ brow, down the bridge of his nose and under his eyes. He wipes one cheek then the other, before collecting the dirt under his chin and rinsing the flannel out before continuing. He cleans the wound carefully then takes a dry towel and presses it to the cut, urging Holmes to hold it himself, while Watson wipes more mud off his body.

The dirt on his neck has almost dried and it takes a fair bit of scrubbing before it comes off. Holmes’ skin turns bright pink with the rough strokes, but he utters nothing of discomfort.

Holmes’ chest is fairly clean, but he rubs the skin, anyway, using long swipes that make their way all the way down to Holmes’ navel. Holmes’ stomach twitches under the contact, but Holmes’ face gives nothing away when Watson glances at it.

He cleans Holmes’ shoulders, down his arms to his wrists and his grimy hands. It takes a while before he can see pink again, but he gets there after one or two cloth rinses. Watson moves to the other arm – Holmes tosses the bloodied rag next the basin, his cut no longer bleeding, and offers up the limb – then moves all the way down to Holmes’ feet. Holmes continues to say nothing as Watson cleans both, rubbing between his toes then around to his heel. He says nothing until Watson cleans up his calves, over his knees, and along his thighs. Holmes clamps his legs shut and looks down at Watson coolly.

“I can take it from here, Watson, thank you.”

Watson holds his gaze for a moment then drops the cloth in the basin with a gentle _splash_. He suddenly becomes aware of his own nakedness, which he finds rather silly, as he he’s been sitting about in only his underwear for at least twenty minutes now. He moves to his own bed, while he pointedly ignores Holmes as he removes his final piece of clothing and carefully cleans the most vulnerable parts of himself.

Watson can’t help but look over, taking in the gentle curve of Holmes’ backside, his slim thighs, and the shadows of something more between his legs. He glances away as Holmes turns to look at his back in the mirror. There’s a fine line of dirt down the length of Holmes’ spine and Watson knows he won’t be able to reach it all by himself.

He stands on unsure legs and walks slowly to Holmes’ back. The other man doesn’t start at his presence, in fact, he hands the cloth over his shoulder without even looking back or further acknowledging him.

Watson dips the flannel into the water one last time, then wrings it, and sets it against the back of Holmes’ neck. He strokes downwards, down between strong shoulder blades, down to the small of his back and the very top of his buttocks. Watson watches as Holmes’ shoulders tense; he squeezes the cloth lightly and watches as one or two drops of murky water disappear between the cheeks Watson so very much wants to part and have Holmes pushing back against him, while moaning at him for more. He clears his throat and moves back to Holmes’ neck, scrubbing lightly at one or two dark spots for a moment, before realising they’re freckles.

Without thinking, he runs his thumb over the marked skin.

“Watson?” Holmes asks, his voice dipping at the end, making it sound like a warning, but it doesn’t stop Watson from tracing over the freckles again.

Holmes turns, holding Watson’s gaze, as Watson tries to keep his face neutral. Holmes tilts his head slightly and thins his lips in thought.

“Now _this_ is a mystery, Watson.”

“Not sure it should be,” Watson mutters, glancing towards the floor because he can’t bear to see Holmes’ expression as he says it.

“I’m sure you could have done better to hide it, but I’m guessing you don’t want to anymore.”

“It has been quite long enough. I figured you would have done something by now – whether it were to hit me or kiss me – if you had noticed.”

Holmes hums in the back of his throat, drawing Watson’s eyes back up to his gaze.

“Is it too late now?”

“I don’t believe so. You may get a parting shot in there, if you would like.”

“Yes, I think I rather would,” Holmes says and Watson closes his eyes, braces himself for the sharp rap of knuckles against his jaw he knows will follow Holmes’ words, but nothing comes. Instead, Holmes’ hand curves about his face, his thumb running over his cheekbone. Watson opens his eyes in surprise and finds Holmes staring intently at him. Their eyes lock and Watson cannot look away, not even when Holmes moves closer and Watson finds himself going slightly cross-eyed.

Holmes gives him time to react, to pull away if he needs to, but Watson does neither, only partly because he’s too stunned to, though mostly because he would be a fool to deny what he’s wanted for so long.

Holmes’ lips against his cheek are warm and gentle, his nose gently pressing into his supple skin, heating his flesh with every breath that flows from it. They trail down towards the corner of Watson’s mouth, before finally falling where Watson has many a times dreamed they would go. There’s nothing but softness in the touch of lips as Holmes keeps the kiss chaste.

The carefulness of Holmes’ actions comforts Watson, but when Holmes’ mouth opens under his own and he’s faced with a wall of blinding heat, he finds himself in over his head. He pulls away, his cheeks aflame.

“You? – I mean – what about? – don’t you?” He gives up when he realises there’s no concrete thought he can voice right now.

“And so the plot thickens,” Holmes whispers with a small smile on his lips. “You have your mysteries and I have mine. I almost let us get caught earlier, for I was seconds away from jumping straight out of that tree and ravishing you in the bushes when you ran your hands along my thighs. I truly knew your feelings for me in that moment, for no man touches another with such brass design without wanting something more from them.”

Watson can feel his cheeks redden more, but Holmes just smiles at him.

“Adrenaline brings out the best in you,” he says before stepping closer and staring deliberately at Watson’s lips. “I am glad of this, for I, too was wondering how long this charade could continue. Watching you squirm while I finished cleaning myself was one of the most arousing moments I have ever been witness to.” He drops kisses over Watson’s lips at random moments, while Watson tries futilely to return them.

“You are a mean soul,” Watson mutters without bite and Holmes just huffs a laugh against his skin.

“Yes, well, I am sure I can make it up to you.”

The suggestion is too much and Watson finds himself trying to steal every breath away from Holmes as he presses their mouths together and kisses with a bruising force. Watson lifts his hand and runs it down Holmes’ side, enjoying as Holmes presses into his palm, but pulls away for a moment and looks worried.

“You are still freezing cold,” he states moving his hands to Holmes’ chest and rubbing at the flesh to try to warm parts of it.

“It is nothing that finishing where we left off won’t cure,” Holmes says, dragging Watson closer again and sliding their mouths back together. Watson finds himself being distracted by Holmes’ tongue and the promise that’s pressing into his thigh. He guides Holmes backwards, letting him fall to a sitting position as the mattress takes Holmes legs out from under him. Holmes bounces lightly, accidentally catching Watson’s lip with his teeth, but Watson just breathes a groan into Holmes’ mouth and pulls back far enough to see Holmes’ face as Holmes hooks his fingertips into the waistband of his underwear.

Watson lets him push them down his legs, lets them fall into a puddle at his feet before gently stepping out of them. Holmes shifts back, but Watson stops him with a hand on his shoulder and Holmes looks at him in confusion, obviously ready to skip to the good part, but Watson has his own ideas. He kneels on the edge of the bed, his legs either side of Holmes’ hips, then seats himself in Holmes’ lap.

Holmes’ face darts forward and he nips at the skin of Watson’s neck, burning gentle gasps into his skin as he does so. The position rubs their cocks together firmly and Watson finds himself feeling half-mad with desire. He grinds down and forwards into Holmes’ pliable body, enjoying when Holmes curls his back and lifts his hips in a way that should most likely be illegal.

Holmes sucks a bruise into the skin of Watson’s throat and Watson feels it throbbing even after Holmes pulls away. Holmes’ fingers trace over the sensitive skin and Watson bucks forward involuntarily as he presses harder against the spot with his thumb.

Holmes hums against his shoulder as his tongue flicks at Watson’s collarbone. Watson finds himself unable to stop as he presses his palms flat against Holmes’ chest and pushes him backwards into the mattress below. Holmes looks fairly debauched and they haven’t even done anything yet. Watson enjoys the sight as Holmes flushes under his hands as he struggles to free himself from Watson’s strong grip. He goes suddenly still and smirks.

“I never knew this side of you, Watson,” he says turning his head to the side and staring across the other side of the room. The action offers the long expanse of Holmes’ neck to Watson, who can’t help but press hot kisses all along it. He keeps them light, not wanting to mar the pale, unblemished skin. He feels Holmes swallow under his mouth and licks at his adam’s apple as it bobs. He gently pulls away, despite Holmes’ quiet groan of disappointment.

“I like to think that there are still one or two things you don’t know about me, Holmes.”

“Doubtful,” Holmes says with a cocky glint in his eyes. “For instance, the fact that you are beyond sensitive here,” he rubs the pad of his thumb over the hollow of Watson’s hipbone and Watson jolts suddenly in surprise, letting out a soft gasp, “has long since been known to me. Also, the birthmark you have here,” he moves to press his finger against a freckle on the inside of Watson’s thigh, “is one of the first things I found out about you when we moved in together.”

Watson bites back a gasp as he almost gets Holmes’ hand where he really wants it.

“Yes,” he says, trying to even his breaths, “but those are all superficial. What about something you can’t see with your eyes?”

Holmes pauses for a moment, then closes his eyes and looks fairly serious. “You have a crease between your brows, right here.” Holmes runs a finger over Watson’s forehead carefully, though Watson bats it away with a half-laugh. Holmes opens his eyes again and smiles brightly, slipping his hand up the back of Watson’s neck and pulling him down for a kiss.

Quietly he whispers into Watson’s ear, “I know you find it endearing how my handwriting curls to the left when I am in a hurry, and that you fill with lust every time I sit in one of our chairs with my legs splayed and my violin tucked under my chin. I also know that you think you are not good enough for me, but I know that’s a lie, for you are the only person I trust enough to place my heart in your hands.” Holmes kisses the edge of Watson’s jaw tenderly and Watson sits back to peer down at his genuine expression.

Watson says nothing, just slips their mouths together, and presses his wordless reply against Holmes’ lips. Holmes’ fingers slip into his hair and hold on tightly; Watson lets them, needing nothing but Holmes’ tongue for the minute.

When Holmes finally pulls away, Watson raises himself up and lets Holmes slip from between his legs. While Holmes shifts to the head of the bed, where he sprawls amongst pillows and starched sheets, Watson moves to locate his overnight bag and the small medical holdall he always keeps with him when they leave the City on weekend-long cases. He finds a balm that will work as lubricant and walks back to the bed. He settles between Holmes’ spread legs and with gentle fingers, prepares him with even strokes that nudge at his prostate, causing Holmes to bite his tongue and press himself harder onto Watson’s digits.

Before Holmes has time to catch his breath, Watson slicks himself up and slips one of Holmes’ legs over his shoulder. Holmes gasps for breath as Watson pushes inside him, clutching at the pillows behind his head, and curling his other leg around Watson’s back. Watson has never seen a more perfect sight; he slides all the way inside and waits a moment for Holmes’ body to adjust.

Holmes – seemingly, never content to wait unless in dire need to – writhes beneath him, quietly whispering pleas for Watson to move, until Watson finally breaks and does so.

He pulls away then thrusts back into Holmes’ body, apparently slamming into Holmes’ prostate, as Holmes’ eyes go very wide and his mouth falls open in a silent cry. He scratches at Watson’s back with his blunt fingernails, leaving Watson’s skin burning and raw. He picks up speed, feeling himself hurtling towards the inevitable end, and slips a hand down to Holmes’ leaking cock. He strokes with precision, watching Holmes’ face to decipher what he enjoys and what he doesn’t, and soon Holmes is bucking into his hand and pushing down onto his cock in fluid movements. The sensation is overwhelming; Watson never thought he could feel so good, but he’s glad to be proven wrong.

Holmes arches his back and calls out Watson’s name, as he finally spills over Watson’s fist, his face twisted in pleasure – a sight Watson will never forget.

Watson slows as his orgasm nears, allowing the feeling to wash him away, like a strong ocean current. He bites Holmes’ name into the shoulder beneath his mouth and lets go deep within him, feeing a lot like he’s draining every ounce of his being out of himself and pouring it into the other man. He slumps forward, letting Holmes’ leg slip off his shoulder to land heavily on the mattress beside Watson’s hip. The angle shifts Watson deeper and although he feels completely spent, there’s a flicker of interest in the recesses of his stomach.

He carefully pulls out of Holmes’ body then drops kisses along Holmes’ brow as he settles in the space beside him. The bed isn’t truly big enough for the two of them to sleep comfortably in, but Watson knows he will not be the one to leave the warmth of Holmes’ skin to sleep on the other mattress, with its cold duvet and flat pillows.

Holmes slips a leg between Watson’s own and pushes closer. Watson runs a hand up his spine, splaying his fingers across his shoulders.

“We will have to push the beds together next time,” Holmes says, voice muffled against Holmes’ chest. Watson can’t help but smile at the thought of a next time. He says nothing, though, just kisses the top of Holmes’ head and shuts his eyes.

After a minute of his mind working overtime, however, Watson opens his eyes again.

“Holmes,” he starts, knowing from the way his friend’s breaths are still uneven that he cannot be asleep yet, “how did you know about my birthmark?”

He can feel a smile against his skin as Holmes kisses the curve of his shoulder.

“Ah, Watson, that is a mystery you will never solve.”

It doesn’t answer his question, but it does make him laugh, and he’s okay with that, at least for now.


End file.
